


An Offering

by elizaye



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Episode: s06e05 Live Free or Twihard, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pre-Slash, Soulless Sam Winchester, Vampire Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cure doesn't take, but instead of killing Dean, Sam and Samuel decide to lock him up until they figure out a way to cure him. But in the meantime, unless Dean gets something in his system, he'll starve to death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Offering

After three days trapped in the cell with no blood to sustain him, Dean is parched. He feels like his entire body is running on empty, shutting down. He strains his ears for any sound of life, but he can only hear the same two sets of heartbeats—by now, he can recognize them by rhythm. Sam’s is slow, steady, never really picks up, while Samuel’s lilts a little, probably because he’s older.

Dean is curled up in the corner of his cell, wondering when it’s finally going to be over, when he hears Sam’s approach.

“I’m going to help you, Dean. I promise.”

“If you wanna help me, let me outta this goddamn cage!” Dean snarls. His voice is cracked, scrapes across the surface of his throat when he speaks, and it fucking  _hurts_. He doesn’t ever remember being this hungry or this thirsty before.

“You’ll hurt someone, and we both know you wouldn’t wanna do that.”

“I’m _dying_ here, Sam.”

“We’re figuring something out,” Sam says. “We’ll find a way.”

Dean curls in on himself a little tighter, closes his eyes. “The cure didn’t work. There’s no way I can turn back, so… Sam, you’ve gotta kill me.”

But Sam’s footsteps are heading the other way now, and he says, “I’m sorry, Dean, but I can’t let you die.”

“But—you’re killing me by keeping me in here anyway. I don’t wanna starve to death, Sam,” Dean protests. He can hear that Sam’s getting too far away now, and he raises his voice even though it hurts to say, “Please! Please, Sammy!”

The footsteps fade away, too far for even Dean to hear, and he moans, emptiness gnawing at his insides. His stomach feels like it’s caved in, and everything burns. He doesn’t really need to breathe anymore, but it’s a habit that he can’t seem to shake, and every time he inhales, the stale air—dry, too dry—scorches his lungs.

When will this torture be _over?_

* * *

He’s lost track of the days when he smells it, something that’s familiar but that he cannot identify. It’s the scent of electricity in the air, layered with something that smells sort of like the ocean but not quite, along with the overwhelming, rusty, rich aroma of blood.

The lights in the hallway outside his cell flick on, and he flinches—the brightness seems to burn right through his eyelids.

“What’s going on?” he rasps, recognizing Sam’s heartbeat.

“Got something for you,” Sam replies.

Dean doesn’t move a muscle. He hears the dart flying through the air but doesn’t have the will to avoid it. There’s a sting in his lower back, and then he feels the poison seeping into his veins, the cold, congealed, tainted blood of a dead man. A chill runs through him, and if he were still human, he thinks his teeth would be chattering.

Then there’s the sound of the gate opening, Sam coming nearer.

“Get… _away_ … from me,” Dean grits out.

Sam hauls him to his feet and drags him out of the cage, and Dean wants to protest, wants to stop, but he doesn’t have the strength. It’s been too long since he ate anything, and he wants, _wants—_

He becomes aware of buzzing in the air, like he’s getting closer to the source of the new scent, and he hears a third heartbeat, faster and harder than Sam’s, drawing closer. Or maybe Dean is being dragged closer. It’s hard to tell, and he still can’t really bring himself to open his eyes—his surroundings are just too fucking bright.

“Is he all right?”

That’s Samuel’s voice. Dean hasn’t heard anything from him for a while. He’d assumed that Samuel had left, moved on to a different hunt. Maybe Samuel brought back the third man, the one that smells different, doesn’t smell like his kin.

“He’s fading,” Sam responds before dumping Dean onto the ground.

Dean grunts at the impact, but it doesn’t really hurt. He imagines that it would have hurt before, had he still been human, but he doesn’t feel pain in the same way anymore. The only thing that really hurts him is that ever-present hunger.

The cell door clangs shut behind him, and he deigns to open his eyes a slit. It’s blessedly dark in this cell, and when he looks around, he sees that there are no windows. He hears Sam and Samuel’s footsteps getting farther away, but the smell of blood, the sound of it rushing through human veins, remains close.

A horrible realization dawns on Dean: Sam and Samuel have brought him a human—a _meal._

And now that he’s recognized that there is a warm, living and breathing body not a few feet from him, he can’t stop himself from pushing onto his hands and knees, crawling over to the back of a… couch? The back of it is lower than any couch Dean’s seen, but that fact fades quickly as the scent of prey fills Dean’s nostrils, and he rears up so that he can see over the edge, see more of his prey than a head of wild black hair.

But as soon as he’s high up enough that he can see, he closes his eyes—he suddenly realizes he doesn’t want to know the face of the man he’ll be draining.

Leaning forward, he dips his head, noses behind the man’s ear—and it _is_  a man, something hot-blooded and irrevocably _male_ about his scent. Saliva floods Dean’s mouth, and he can feel his second set of teeth emerging from his gums. Dean lowers his head some more, inhales deeply at the base of the man’s neck.

No—no, he _can’t_. This is a human being. Dean’s fought his entire life to protect them, and he can’t just kill one of them now.

Dean wants to jerk back, but he can’t stop inhaling, can’t stop pulling in the scent of life, because this isn’t hurting the guy. It won’t hurt to sniff him a bit. Dean wonders what Sam drugged this guy with, because he hasn’t moved an inch since Dean came over, and he can’t imagine a guy being okay with all this sniffing.

Distracted, Dean’s tongue slips out of his mouth, and he gets a taste of the guy’s skin, slightly salty but clean. He can practically feel the man’s blood rushing under his tongue, and it’s hard to remember why he shouldn’t just sink his teeth in and _take_. Licking won’t hurt anyone either, Dean figures, so he mouths his way up from the base of the guy’s neck until he’s about halfway between jaw and shoulder.

But the taste isn’t enough to distract him anymore, and Dean very gently grazes the man’s neck with the side of his tooth, careful not to break the skin. He moans and imagines how it would feel to indulge himself. He’s been so hungry for so long. So he repeats the motion, working his jaw slightly, teasing himself. He imagines the skin beneath his teeth becoming red and raw from the friction, blood rising to the surface, and—

All it takes is one second, a maybe-unintentional tightening of his jaw, and one of his vamp teeth pierces the skin. A drop of blood wells up along the inside of his tooth, and Dean draws back, shocked at himself. But it’s too late—there’s blood in his mouth, a tease that is impossible to resist, and he licks at his tooth, chasing the taste.

His eyes flick open, and all he can see is a trickle of blood running down the man’s neck, and he wants—no, he _needs._

Dean is pulled forward, almost against his own will, mouth fastening to the cut and sucking. The man twitches a little, and Dean’s hands rise of their own accord to rest on the man’s shoulders, just in case he tries to get away.

God, he’s never tasted anything so _good_. This blood is rich, thick, hot, and now that he’s had a taste, he can’t be satisfied with this tiny flow. Dean widens his jaw and sinks his teeth in properly, groaning as the blood gushes into his mouth and floods his taste buds. He drinks deeply, enjoying the borrowed warmth as it settles into his limbs and makes him feel alive again.

“Mm, what—”

Dean freezes at the sound of that voice because he’ll always recognize it, even if it’s sluggish and drugged, lower than it normally is. He pulls back and opens his eyes slowly, afraid of what he’ll see—“Cas?”

Leaning forward, Dean forces his eyes away from the blood that’s sliding down Cas’s neck and pooling between his collarbones, and yeah, it’s Cas. His eyes are only open a slit, and he’s shirtless, which is something Dean never thought he’d see, but it’s unmistakably Cas.

Dean recoils, disgusted with himself, and his hunger has apparently been sated enough that he’s allowed to back away. But his throat is starting to feel dry again already, fuck.

“Dean. What—what’s happening?”

Dean circles around to the front of the couch, because he needs to see Cas, needs to know what the hell is wrong with him. “What did they do to you?” he murmurs, trying to keep his eyes on Cas’s face instead of his sluggishly bleeding neck.

Cas tries to sit up, but a set of golden sigils suddenly flares into existence on his chest, and he cries out, falling back against the cushions.

“Cas!” Dean bites out involuntarily, but he forces himself to stay still, because he can’t trust himself if he gets too close to Cas. The sight and scent of fresh blood are already affecting him as it is, and he clenches his hands into fists to keep himself under control.

“What’s… what’s happened to you, Dean?” Cas asks, and the alarm and concern in his eyes is too much for Dean to bear, especially since he was just _sucking Cas’s blood_. He doesn’t deserve this attention.

“What do you think?” he responds gruffly.

Cas starts to lift an arm, but a band of sigils appears there as well, and he flinches before letting it fall back to his side. “I’ve been restrained,” he says needlessly.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“You…” Cas says, eyes full of sorrow as he looks back up at Dean. “How did this happen to you?”

“Wasn’t fast enough,” Dean answers. It’s silent for a while, and Dean forces himself to turn around so that he can’t look at the trail of blood anymore. It’s sliding down his chest now, and all Dean wants is to turn back around and lap it up. “‘M sorry,” he mumbles.

“For what?”

Dean spins around despite himself. “For what?” he repeats. “For chowing down on you. I—fuck, I was just so hungry—”

“You are still hungry,” Cas observes, and he’s right. Dean’s eyes are focused completely on Cas, on the blood, and he’s so, so tempted. “Take what you need, Dean. You cannot hurt me.”

Dean moans and drops to his knees. “Cas, I can’t.”

“You already have.”

“Not making me feel any better, here.”

“Dean, I am an angel. I will heal. You need to drink,” Cas says. When Dean doesn’t look up, Cas says his name again. And again.

Dean finally looks up and sees Cas’s hand flipped over, palm facing up. He curls his fingers in a beckoning motion, and Dean is helpless to resist the summoning, eyes flitting to the drying blood as he shifts closer. He places his hand in Cas’s and is surprised by how weak the angel seems to be. Yet his heart beats just as strongly as it did before Dean drank from him.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, “what the hell did they do to you?”

Cas smiles weakly. “I should not have tried to resist the binding. My struggle has weakened me,” he answers. “But that doesn’t matter. Drink, Dean. Recover your strength.”

“What’s the point? I can’t just live off you forever. I’m a monster, Cas!”

“You are not a monster. We will find a way to cure you. Until then, I am willing to provide you with the strength you need to stay away from human blood.”

“Cas, you can’t do this.”

“I can, and I will.”

“You can’t _make_ me drink,” Dean says, even though he knows it’s not true. It’s already taking every ounce of his willpower to keep himself from leaning forward and renewing the puncture wounds in Cas’s neck. Thankfully, the blood is drying already and doesn’t smell so strong.

But just as this thought crosses his mind, Cas tenses up, and Dean only has a split-second to wonder what Cas is doing before blood begins to flow freely from the wound, thick and copious and messy. Dean groans and tries to back away, but his body won’t move.

“Don’t waste my blood, Dean,” Cas urges.

Dean snarls, a wordless protest, but the next thing he knows, the blood lust is rising up in him, and he’s climbing onto the couch and straddling Cas’s lap, leaning in close for another drink.


End file.
